


The Morning After

by thinkpink20



Series: Virginity [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part two in the 'Virginity' series</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

Lestrade wakes up in the bath. Through the fog of sleep that still lingers at the edges of his mind he wonders if it's still 1985 and he's still a student, because he can't imagine any other concrete explanation for why he'd be waking up in a bath...

The sound of water splashing in the sink behind him rouses him fully and Lestrade instantly remembers why he left the comfort of his bed.

Sherlock, it seems, _does_ snore.

"Do you have a spare toothbrush?" Sherlock asks, already selecting toothpaste from the bathroom cupboard. He is also sorting through the mouthwash and the year-old bottle of antibiotics as though he owns the place.

Lestrade supposes this is what passes for a 'good morning' in Sherlock's world.

"On top of the cupboard," he replies, tongue thick and heavy from sleep. He licks his dry lips and instantly begins to feel embarrassed.

Oh God, they had sex. Sherlock confessed his virginity and Lestrade promptly... took it. He feels the distinct desire to curl back down in the bath.

"Did you sleep alright?" Lestrade asks, out of sheer politeness and a lack of anything else to say.

Mid-way through his teeth cleaning, Sherlock turns and frowns at him sharply. "You mean despite you elbowing me in the back several times to complain about my snoring before stomping off to the bathroom like a petulant child?"

The cheek of this statement considering it's _his_ house is not lost on Lestrade. "Oh sorry, did _I_ wake _you?_ You're like a bloody tractor, Sherlock!"

"I've never had any complaints before," Sherlock says, spitting in the sink and then rinsing.

"Yeah well, you've never slept with anyone before, have you?" Lestrade grumbles, rubbing at his sore neck that has been angled oddly all night. It's not until he feels the atmosphere instantly chill that he realises what he's said. He feels a dropping sensation in his stomach and realises Sherlock has paused awkwardly in the middle of wiping his face. "Shit, I didn't mean - "

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock says, then strides from the bathroom, back straight and aloof.

Lestrade hears the door shut behind him and slumps back down into the bath.

 

 

He needs a shower but coffee comes first, so he cleans his own teeth and shrugs on last night's trousers to go with the crumpled shirt he slept in. 

The mirror tells him as he wipes his mouth that his hair is a mess, sticking up at a collection of odd angles like spikes on a porcupine. Lestrade wets his fingers and then tries to tame it down but it won't go - he consoles himself as he walks down the stairs with the fact that at least no one will see it, Sherlock will be back on his way to Baker Street by now, crawling across town in the Monday morning traffic in a taxi. He tries giving a tentative prod to the section of his brain that recalls what happened last night to see how he feels about it (mildly aroused - the memories are just a little bit too evocative for this time of the morning) and he's considering some food before his shower when - 

He finds Sherlock sitting at the breakfast bar, coffee in hand.

"Oh," Lestrade says, somewhat impolitely.

"What?"

"I thought you'd gone."

Sherlock appears calm and unfazed, as always. Bastard. "Disappointed?"

"No," Lestrade replies, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. "No, I just thought... Did you make me one?" He nods to the coffee cup in Sherlock's hand.

"No."

For some reason, Lestrade finds he's not surprised. He simply goes about the mechanical routine of getting a fresh filter, throwing away the old coffee, measuring out more. All the while Sherlock simply watches him, and Lestrade finds the silence is far less awkward that he'd imagined it would be.

"You still make enough for two," Sherlock points out, as soon as Lestrade sits down. He curls his hands around the warmth of his mug, still bleary from sleep and frowns.

"What?"

"You still make enough coffee for two. How long has it been?"

Lestrade doesn't need to think - it's a number that sticks with you. "Six years," he says, and realises that he never knew. "Habit, I suppose." The tone of his voice sounds oddly guilty.

Sherlock swallows another mouthful of coffee. "And you need to send Caitlin her birthday gift."

Lestrade looks up startled from his mug. "Shit, I forgot." Then he flinches. "How did you...?"

A tiny, smug smile curls at the ends of Sherlock's lips. Lestrade gets a sharp flashback from the previous night, his tongue dragging softly along that now smiling, plump bottom lip. He feels a twinge of sensation between his thighs. 

"Today's date on the calender has a female name and Manchester address scrawled across it; you can't be going there as you're the type who'd prepare a bag the night before, plus there is a blonde, unfeasible representation of a woman in a small box next to the toaster - obviously a gift for a child, obviously female and expensive looking enough to warrant a birthday."

"She's called Barbie," Lestrade yawns, nodding at the doll on the work-surface. "I'll have to go to the post office."

"Niece?" Sherlock asks.

"Sort of - she's Hannah's cousin."

Sherlock immediately raises his eyes. "She's dead and you still buy gifts for her family?"

A flare of protective anger over Hannah ignites in Lestrade's stomach, but he knows Sherlock well enough to know this isn't a _personal_ attack. He simply doesn't feel in that way.

Or feel at all, really.

"She's still my family."

"Technically the connection terminates when...." He trails off when he sees the look Lestrade is giving him. Thankfully Sherlock isn't so unreceptive to other people's emotions that he doesn't understand a pointed glare.

Lestrade reaches up to rub at the painful strain in his neck, silently cursing the bath - the sofa, he thinks, would have been a better option. He is considering taking a couple of paracetamol before it spreads and becomes a headache when Sherlock gives a small cough. "Why didn't you just ask me to leave?"

The question startles him somewhat, and the very direct, unflinching look Sherlock is giving him only adds to how unsettled he feels. "What?"

"Last night, after we had sex - why didn't you ask me to leave?"

Lestrade has never known a one night stand to hang around the morning after and bring up the one topic sitting heavy in the room like a silent elephant. He supposes Sherlock doesn't know the protocol. 

"I didn't... I don't know, I didn't want you to go, I suppose."

Sherlock measures this answer carefully whilst also measuring Lestrade. The strain in the side of his neck starts to throb a little bit.

"I see."

Lestrade frowns - after making such a confession, he was expecting a little bit more than that. "You _see?_ Is that all?"

"What more did you want?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, I don't know," Lestrade shrugs, feeling embarrassment flicker into anger as he speaks. "Maybe an 'apologies for snoring so loudly you had to resort to sleeping in your own bathroom' or even just a bloody 'so long and thanks for all the fish'!"

Sherlock's forehead crumples in what Lestrade can only describe as a distracting fashion. "Fish?"

"It's a cultural reference," Lestrade hears himself grump. 

"I see."

"Can you stop saying 'I see'?"

That comes out considerably more snappy than he meant it to, but the ache in his neck just won't seem to go away and the otherwise still of the barely-used kitchen seems louder because of the tense conversation. It's a few moments before Sherlock speaks again, and Lestrade closes his eyes, relishing the silence.

"Do you feel uncomfortable about it?"

Lestrade looks up. Sherlock seems more open than he did before, his eyes just that tiny bit less scathing and analytical. "What?"

"The fact that we had sex."

"Well, technically _I_ had sex," Lestrade sighs. "I think you just lay there."

Sherlock frowns. "Did I?"

"If you touched me, I missed it."

It's only when he says the words that Lestrade realises that this is what he's been angry (and embarrassed) about. He feels a flush of warmth creep over his face and remembers that this is why when he (infrequently) did this at university he used to sneak away before the other person woke up.

"You seemed to be rather busy touching yourself, if I recall."

The look in Sherlock's eyes when he says that catches Lestrade somewhat off guard - his eyes are dark, slightly smiling. The memory arouses him, Lestrade realises, and feels himself flush even further.

"Yeah, well... It's been a while since I..."

Sherlock nods. He takes a careful mouthful of his coffee and Lestrade listens to him swallow, wondering why that particular noise settles low in his stomach. He feels over-sensitised.

"My apologies if it appeared I wasn't a willing participant; I assure you that wasn't the case."

Lestrade can't help the small laugh that escapes from his throat. Sherlock immediately looks perturbed. "What?"

"Only you could be that clinical about sex."

"And what else should I be?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, you don't have to be emotional about it, it doesn't have to _mean_ anything, but it was about feeling something at the time - there's nothing wrong with that."

"So I should express my feelings about it?"

"Well you don't have to - "

"Fine," Sherlock says, as though doing some kind of audit. "It was very pleasurable - at times more so than others, I found the ear-biting more damp and painful than anything but - "

"Alright, alright!" Lestrade groans, feeling the dread of mortification run down his back like a dose of cold water. He feels like hiding in the pantry until Sherlock agrees to leave. "No need to go over it."

_"But,"_ Sherlock continues, as though conceding a point. It's clearly not in his nature to give compliments. "You're rather skilled at frottage."

Lestrade laughs before he can stop himself. Thankfully Sherlock appears to be smiling too. "Frottage? My God, you used to read dictionaries as a teenager, didn't you?"

"I still read the odd dictionary now."

He sounds relaxed, Lestrade realises - it's not a state he naturally finds Sherlock in given that the greater part of their time spent together is during a case, but he's beginning to learn the tone, from last night and this morning.

"I used to just look up the dirty words," Lestrade admits, hiding his smile behind his now cold coffee. "It was always just teasing, a line or two making you wish they'd further the explination."

"Frankly this doesn't surprise me," Sherlock replies. "This was before you got your hands on the school porn magazines, I presume?"

"How did you - ?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I did go to school as well, Lestrade - public school, in fact - I do know about the habits of teenage boys."

Lestrade thinks for a bare second before he speaks and decides to risk it. "You never let any of them go down on you, though."

When Sherlock looks up, his expression is only half surprise - the rest is something Lestrade can't place. He saw it last night and recognised it, but in the cold light of day without the whisky, he can't be so sure. "No," he says. "Only you have that dubious privilege."

Lestrade makes sure to meet Sherlock's eyes when he speaks, wants him to know he's serious. "Not dubious," he says, "Not at all."

The comment hangs in the air between them for a few pregnant moments, and Lestrade watches as Sherlock licks his lips. He wants to kiss him again, and the knowledge of that doesn't surprise him somehow. He thinks he's wanted to kiss him since the second he realised he was still in his bathroom.

"If you - "

The shrill noise of the telephone ringing from the table in the living room breaks the atmosphere like a bucket of cold water. Lestrade growls at the back of his throat as he gets down from his stool against the breakfast bar and goes to get it, already angry with the caller.

"What?"

"Sir?" Sergeant Sally Donovan sounds surprised at his tone and Lestrade immediately feels a wash of guilt. He raises his hand to his neck, rubs it carefully.

"Yeah it's me, sorry - what is it?"

"Just thought I'd call and check you were alright, Sir - you're usually in by now and there's notes scattered all over your desk like you left in a hurry. Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," he says, aware of the noise of Sherlock moving around in the kitchen behind him. "Just needed a lie-in, that's all."

The soft pad of feet echoes through the sparse living room as Sherlock walks by. "Is that Sally?" He asks, close enough to the phone so that she can hear. "Tell her I say hello, won't you? And that that green skirt doesn't suit her, makes her look dumpy."

He disappears through the door and up the stairs and Lestrade hears Donovan gasp on the other end of the line. "Is that - ? What's he doing there?"

Lestrade rolls his eyes until they fall shut. "That's 'What's he doing there _Sir,'_ to you."

"Bloody hell! Is that why you're late? Did he stay over? Is that why he's - " There is a very brief pause. "Hang on, how does he know I've got my green skirt on? What sort of freak is he, Sir? Is he adding stalking to his list of hobbies now? Because - "

"Listen Donovan," Lestrade says, already weary from how long this point will doubtless run amongst his colleagues. "I'm fine, I'll be in later - was there anything else?"

Sounding like she's choking back her words, Sally eventually speaks again. "No, Sir."

"Right, see you later then."

Lestrade hits the 'end call' button before she can get another word in. The second he throws the phone down on the soft seat of the couch, he takes the stairs two at a time and finds Sherlock in his bedroom.

"What the hell did you have to do that for? I won't hear the end of that until next bloody Christmas, you know."

"How else was I supposed to tell her she looked dumpy in that green skirt?" Sherlock asks, bending down to retrieve his sock from beside the bed. "I was only trying to help."

"That wasn't a very clever deduction either," Lestrade notes, trying to ignore the way his heart sinks as he watches Sherlock preparing to leave. He'd thought for a second in the kitchen there... "Everyone knows she always wears that hideous green thing on a Monday."

"Ah," Sherlock smiles, locating Lestrade's tie and throwing it back to him. "But did you know she does it because it's her biggest item? She wears it because she feels bloated on a Monday morning after drinking at the weekend."

Lestrade frowns. "You know too much about my staff; are you stalking them?"

Sitting on the end of the bed and laying both of his newly retrieved socks aside, Sherlock looks up at him carefully. "If I was going to stalk anyone it would be you, Lestrade - I wouldn't waste my time on the rest of them."

A flurry of warmth chases up his spine at the low timbre of Sherlock's tone and Lestrade isn't sure whether to look away from his eyes or not. He doesn't think he can. "Should I take that as a compliment or open a case report on it?" He asks, realising that his hands are fiddling with the tie Sherlock recently returned to him. He lets the material curl up tightly into his fingers. 

"More as a point of fact," Sherlock replies. "You're simply the most interesting."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. He gets up from the end of the bed and comes unbearably close, causing Lestrade to break into a mild sweat underneath last night's clothes. He wonders how long he's going to last before he just kisses him. Not long, he suspects. "Though frankly," Sherlock goes on, reaching for Lestrade's hand and uncurling his fingers one by one until he can take hold of the tie and slip the silk from his grasp. "That's not saying much, the rest of them are mind-numbingly prosaic."

"So I'm the best of a bad bunch?" Lestrade asks, taking his own step forward so that there are now mere inches between them. Sherlock is close enough to kiss, and his eyes look impossibly dark in the clear light of the bedroom. 

Lestrade feels wound as tight as an elastic band.

"Well," Sherlock replies, voice clear and as sharp as crystal. "You're the only one I'll work with."

Lestrade's eyes flicker down to Sherlock's lips, fixated with the thought of them, wanting them again. When he speaks, he sounds distracted even to his own ears. "And the only one you'll let go down on you."

His body seems to run cold before running hot. God, he hasn't felt like this in _years._ He licks his lips.

Sherlock smiles a little bit, and Lestrade is glad to see it's not his smug smile or his shark-like smile. That makes him feel safer. "Yes," he says very quietly. "The only one."

Lestrade feels something snap inside him, closes the gap between them and covers Sherlock's lips with his own. To his surprise, Sherlock replies immediately, mouth opening warm and wet beneath his and Lestrade flushes hot again, their breath mingling as they both angle perfectly into the kiss. It's sharp and demanding from Sherlock and completely and utterly self assured, and that causes another shiver of something indescribable to bloom at the base of Lestrade's spine. He reaches out blindly for Sherlock's hips, dragging him closer.

"That's a truly disgusting brand of toothpaste," Sherlock observes, somehow managing to insult whilst also simultaneously kissing. "Don't buy it again."

"Fine," he mutters, "Whatever you want." Lestrade pulls carelessly at the folds of Sherlock's shirt, trying to free it and get to the milky white skin underneath when he suddenly feels his back hit the wall. He hadn't realised they'd been edging backwards but now Sherlock has him pinned, and he obediently raises his chin when an eager mouth demands access to his neck, doing something delicious with a tongue that is causing him to harden rapidly inside his trousers.

"Are you - " he cuts off, distracted by a groan and squirming as Sherlock appears to be licking - no, actually, _sucking_ \- at the tender flesh of his neck. "Are you staying, then?"

He's so busy being lost in the sensation of Sherlock moving against him, long fingers trailing up into his hair and the mild scrape of nails underneath his shirt bruising his nipple that he doesn't have time to realise what Sherlock is doing until he's done it. A sharp pain on his neck gives him his answer, though.

"Shit, Jesus!" Lestrade cries, one hand flying to his neck as Sherlock pulls away smirking. "What have you - ? Have you given me a bloody love-bite?"

"You bruise easily," Sherlock states. "I suspected as much."

"Sherlock, we're not - Christ, we're not bloody fourteen! What have you - ?"

"Oh do shut up," he says, as though this is the most boring conversation in the world, and then kisses Lestrade again, capturing the shocked 'o' of his mouth with his. 

The feel of those lips is really very distracting and Lestrade lets his eyes flutter shut again, parting his legs just slightly to let Sherlock move in closer against him, grateful for the support of the wall behind him as he feels a distinct hardness press against his hip and warmth rolls through him again. He feels stuffy and uncomfortable in last night's shirt and still something of a sticky mess, but he can't bring himself to care a great deal about it as Sherlock starts rocking against him. A hand tightens in his hair as Sherlock grunts in an uncharacteristically animalistic fashion and breaks their kiss to rest his forehead against Lestrade's, distracted by the sensations. He appears to really rather like doing this. 

Anger at the dirty great mark on his neck quickly dissipating, Lestrade opens his eyes tentatively, keen to get a look at Sherlock so undone - last night had been fogged by the whisky but this morning he is far more aware of - and fascinated with - what's happening. He's hard and aching and desperate to just _touch,_ but for a moment he simply watches, his own breathing staggered and uneven as he takes in the image of Sherlock, eyes closed in pleasure and mouth open slightly, breathing damp and unco-ordinated against Lestrade's cheek. His whole body is warm and taught with tension as he continues to roll their hips together over and over again, clearly biting back noises here and there, trying to cling to his self control.

The image is distracting, to say the least. Lestrade lets the fingers resting on Sherlock's waist dig in slightly, craving more skin on skin. Eventually, when he can't just simply watch any longer, he shifts a hand up into sweat-damp curls and angles Sherlock away from him again for another kiss, relieved at having that mouth back on his, lips firm and commanding despite how unravelled he seems.

It really does feel rather exquisitely good and Lestrade senses his ability to stand upright is threatened by a mere sweep of Sherlock's tongue along his bottom lip. A nip to the sensitised, delicate skin there causes him to scrunch his fingers painfully into the corner of Sherlock's shirt that he's still holding until eventually he manages to negotiate the buttons successfully and pushes it over thin, delicate but firm shoulders. 

Sherlock shrugs out of it but then breaks off their kiss, stilling until Lestrade opens his eyes to discern why the sudden lack of contact. 

"What?" He pants, becoming shamefully aware of how fast his breathing is, how quickly this all appears to have brought him dangerously close to his orgasm.

"You said I didn't touch you," Sherlock says, eyes clouded but still able to give that sharp appearance. He licks his lips quickly, as though tasting their kiss on his indecently swollen bottom lip.

"So?"

"So I thought I'd better put that right."

Cool, clever fingers moving knowingly over the button and the zip on his trousers cause a jump of anticipation in Lestrade's stomach. He almost squirms with pleasure as Sherlock pushes the cotton of his underwear down low over his hips and then - still looking at him with that unmistakable, observant stare - slips his hand beneath the crumpled layers of clothing and takes hold of him.

It's slightly awkward at first, Sherlock clearly not used to the odd angle (and Lestrade is reminded that in many things he still _is_ virginal) but the sensation still causes Lestrade to let his head fall back against the wall behind him, jutting his hips forward to give Sherlock more room to touch him, increase the jagged, tight curl of his fingers as his wrist works carefully, quick to establish a rhythm. 

He feels vaguely like his blood is on fire underneath his skin he's so warm, and Lestrade feels his fingers grasp out desperately wherever they can, one hand curling around Sherlock's forearm, the other one gripping on to those expensively tailored pants. The thought floats across his mind that he hopes he doesn't rip them, but then Sherlock's mouth is on his neck again, ghosting over that spot he marked earlier and Lestrade can't bring himself to care anymore. He feels vaguely like maybe he should warn Sherlock what's going to happen, but he's not _that_ much of a novice, so instead Lestrade just nudges against him for a kiss, pressing his lips first into Sherlock's hair and then over his ear as he moves, their mouths eventually meeting in some sloppy, unco-ordinated mess.

When he comes, he swears he feels Sherlock flinch away to avoid getting any mess on his precious trousers. He doesn't give it much thought though, not as Sherlock is still kissing him, jerking him slightly to draw out the aftershocks until Lestrade's over-sensitised flesh can't take anymore. He bats Sherlock's hand away, aware that his legs are shaking slightly and he feels weak. Sherlock kisses him again and he tells himself it doesn't matter that he's a sticky mess - until he can't persuade himself of that anymore because Sherlock is now physically keeping his distance.

"Are you alright? You look as though you're about to die."

"Oh, thank you," Lestrade responds, aware he must look flushed and half asleep. "I'm not sure about death but I definitely need a shower; come on."

It crosses his mind that if he wasn't still in a slight post-orgasmic haze, he might be slightly more tentative about suggesting this to Sherlock, but thankfully he doesn't hear any protest as he goes through to the bathroom (feet sounding on the landing behind him) and drops his clothes in a pile in the corner. Lestrade has turned on the dial and stepped willingly under the spray before he feels a body stepping in behind him. He has his eyes closed under the tumult of water, the heat of it soothing the aching muscles in his neck when he finally feels those increasingly familiar hands on his hips and the base of his back, tracing over the mild red lines where his underwear has been.

Still facing away into the shower spray he relaxes, letting Sherlock step closer to him and pull him back against his body. He's still hard, of course, and he slips into the shallow dip at the base of Lestrade's spine, mouth already on the back of an already bruised neck.

The sensation is an odd one - he hasn't had proper sex with another man since... well, university. The feel of Sherlock there though, right against his back, snug against his behind makes Lestrade wonder what exactly he wants. His mind starts racing - he's got vaseline in the cupboard, condoms in the second drawer in the bedroom and - 

The feeling of Sherlock rocking against him distracts Lestrade from his thoughts, as do the fingers trailing down over his hips, along his thighs and back up around slowly, tracing his stomach. There is a mouth kissing along the taut line of his shoulder too, biting just hard enough to be pleasurable and even though Lestrade knows it's going to be half an hour or so before his body actually responds again, he still gets sparks of feeling in his stomach, enough to make him close his eyes and focus on the sensation.

The fingers wandering over the base of his spine eventually dip down between their bodies as Sherlock steps away and for the first time Lestrade feels like Sherlock's touches are quiet and experimenting. He doesn't move, just leans against the shower wall patiently as Sherlock touches him, fingers trailing lower until he finds what he's looking for. Enquiring fingertips circle his entrance carefully and Lestrade tries not to push back.

He doesn't realise he's holding his breath, lost in the sensation until Sherlock speaks.

"What does that feel like?"

Lestrade's eyes flicker open, aware of shower water falling off his lashes as he tries to speak.

"Like I want you to press inside."

The silence sounds unusually heavy around them and Lestrade can hear how loud the water is, still pouring down over the both of them, hitting the shower floor. He makes a conscious effort again not to push back against Sherlock's fingers but it's oh-so tempting.

"It would hurt."

It's said in that typical Sherlock fashion - an absolute statement of fact that surely everyone knows. He sounds sure of himself, but Lestrade can tell from the way he's touching that he has absolutely no experience with this, not even self-exploratory.

"Course it does, at first," Lestrade replies. "But it's worth it."

He thinks about saying, 'Do you want me to show you?' or something similar, but then suddenly the inquisitive, thoughtful Sherlock is gone (apparently satisfied with his answer) and the Sherlock so full of action that he's more used to is back.

Fingers that had been meandering are now suddenly forceful on Lestrade's hips, turning him around under the shower water and he's faced with the vision of Sherlock with dark, wet curls falling into his eyes, water droplets racing their way down along that sharp jawline to his chin. Before he can be stopped, Lestrade leans in and swipes one away with his tongue. 

The feeling of Sherlock pressed hard against the soft skin of his stomach stirs another wave of feeling inside Lestrade and he's grateful when Sherlock kisses him again with as much force as the fingers so recently on his hips. He reaches between them and touches Sherlock expertly, remembering from the previous night what he liked, recalling the particular swipe of his thumb that caused Sherlock to groan quietly at the back of his throat. He's already impressed with how long he's lasted, senses correctly with a sharp twist of his wrist that it won't be much longer as Sherlock closes his eyes. Lestrade realises that he's not even embarrassed about being watched as the hand not steadying itself on Lestrade's waist goes out to rest against the wall of the shower - this is clearly Sherlock's version of clinging on; grappling for inanimate objects. 

Defying him, Lestrade makes sure he winds his free arm around Sherlock's waist to hold him upright, and is glad he did so a second later when the irregular breathing cracks into a sharp moan and Sherlock comes against his hand, covering them both. His legs give a little, his weight becomes heavier but it's only a second before he has righted himself and Lestrade watches him step away, bracing himself against the shower wall with both arms, head dipped as his breathing tries to even out.

Lestrade grabs the shower gel, washes himself quickly until he feels at least half clean and then glances up. Sherlock is watching him, but he's too slow to catch the look in his eyes.

"I should go."

It all seems oddly fast and something uncomfortable settles in Lestrade's stomach, but he just nods. "Right." 

He steps aside obligingly to let Sherlock wash quickly at his hands and torso before reaching for the one towel on the rail, clean and warm and technically Lestrade's. 

"Call me if you get a case," Sherlock tells him, suddenly business-like as he wraps the white linen around his waist, tucking it in sharply at the front and gathering his clothes.

"Right," Lestrade replies again. He begins to wonder if he can actually say anything else anymore. He's shocked by the sharp turn from intimate to aloof, his slow brain trying to keep up with the switch. It makes him feel surprisingly lonely.

The door to the bathroom shuts for the second time that day behind Sherlock Holmes. The last few hour or so seems like a blur and Lestrade listens pointlessly over the sound of the shower as feet pad very briefly around his bedroom then grace the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Then the front door slams. The merciful hot water pouring down on his aching shoulder doesn't even flicker in response and Lestrade wonders what just happened - if he lost someone or found someone or neither of those two things.

Out of nowhere he remembers Sherlock's comment last night over chips along the Embankment - 'you're more a colleague'.

Lestrade sighs loudly and reaches for the shampoo, the noise of the cap flicking open echoing loudly in the empty bathroom of his empty house. 

He needs to get a move on, anyway; he needs to get back to work.


End file.
